


Making Out Inside Crashed Cars

by SnitchesAndTalkers



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M, Pining, Sex on a Car, idiots to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:55:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24644428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnitchesAndTalkers/pseuds/SnitchesAndTalkers
Summary: Look, Patrick doesn't evenlikecars, okay? But he does like Pete...
Relationships: Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz
Comments: 42
Kudos: 121





	Making Out Inside Crashed Cars

**Author's Note:**

> It has been three years since I posted my first Peterick fic on AO3. Three years, and just over 1.3 million words-at least 500k of which are probably variants of the word 'penis'. 36 months of fic, and fandom, and a couple of idiots from Chicago. Thank you so much, so sincerely, and from the bottom of my heart for every comment, every kudos, every note on tumblr. This is me, marking the occasion of my bandom birthday with close to 6k of completely shameless car-based smut.
> 
> Here's to the next year.

Overalls.

If Patrick had to discover anything weird about himself—You know? Sexually?—he's pretty fucking pissed it had to be overalls.

*

Patrick doesn’t even _like_ cars. As a hobby. He’s okay with them as a mode of transportation, and he admits they make it easier to reach strip mall record stores or drive-through restaurants. But cars? As a special interest? Hard pass, thanks. 

But Pete likes cars, and Patrick likes Pete, and now Patrick has to pretend he likes cars, too. It’s ridiculous, honestly. Patrick’s embarrassed and in any other situation, he would’ve just told Pete to piss off and that would’ve been the end of it. Patrick could’ve gone on with his life.

But here’s the thing:

Pete is no longer the Pete that Patrick knew in 2002. That Pete was sexually confusing enough to newly-minted baby bisexual Patrick Stump. There were drainpipe jeans and shirts of unreasonable tightness and dick pics and MySpace drama and devastating fights that Patrick still can’t discuss with his therapist. There was the public breakup of the band, followed by the public breakdown of Pete’s marriage. Patrick spent three years aware of Pete Wentz only on the pages of Gawker, and then landed there himself after an ill-advised bottle of Jack lowered his inhibitions juuust enough to make posting his own tortured self-flagellation seem like a good idea. It was a fucked up decade, is the thing. Patrick’s barely processed, like, half of it.

Then, Pete showed up in Patrick’s missed calls, and Patrick ignored him. So, obviously, Pete started showing up at Patrick’s front door, which was harder to ignore, which was probably his plan all along because Pete is kind of a butt like that. Patrick didn’t know how to deal with him, this new and improved version of Pete Wentz. He showed up with burritos, and a sexy, serious mouth, and practical firsthand knowledge on how to cope with negative press, and Patrick _did not know how to deal with that._ For once, _Patrick_ was the failure and Pete knew exactly what to do to put it right. Their dynamic was torn apart.

It was—still is—weird.

To make matters worse, Pete’s gone ahead and developed a brand-new look. A look that speaks to Patrick’s penis in the language of its people: hot Hollywood celebrity dad dressed in jeans as ripped as their tank tops. He’s got this choppy haircut that Patrick wants to twist between his fingers, a thick scruff of stubble that would feel _amazing_ against Patrick’s thighs, and biceps that suggest bench pressing Patrick would be a distinct possibility. Look, Patrick barely figured out how to deal with the eyeliner-wearing emo kid who flat-ironed his hair and painted his fingernails with Sharpie. He’s unequipped to deal with this—this level of outright attractiveness, this hotness with intent to seduce. Patrick can just about make it through a simple conversation with Pete without rushing off to deal with his enthusiastic erection. Anything, uh, _lengthier,_ is just asking for trouble.

The controllable solution to these uncontrollable hard-ons is for Patrick to stay away from Pete unless they’re in the company of one—or preferably _both_ —of their grandmothers. Nothing quells amorous intentions like the presence of elderly relatives. That’s just common sense. So, when Pete says, “Hey, I bought a ‘67 Mustang, d’you want to help me fix it up some?” Patrick _obviously_ ought to say no. 

But Patrick is an idiot, and Patrick is struck by the sudden and devastating image of Pete in mechanic’s overalls, smelling faintly of old leather, carrying a tire under each arm with his tattoos streaked with motor oil like a Playgirl James Dean. It’s an image that will fuel the lonelier moments, one hand pressed over his own stomach, the other curled around his cock, imagining his fingers are longer, darker. So, Patrick says, “Yes! I’d love to! I love cars, and fixing cars, and I’d love to help you fix your car!”

Yeah, he judges himself pretty hard. 

But the damage is done, and now they have a _project_ , and Patrick has to spend long, sweaty summer days cramped in a garage with his best friend/thirst object. He responds to this by jerking off. A lot.

No place is safe from his flagrant self-abuse. He masturbates in his shower, eyes closed, hand slippery with soap. He jerks off in his bed, in front of his TV, and at his desk, and in the tiny closet space he’s cleared out and turned into a makeshift home studio. He strokes his dick until it’s nothing more than an angry red exclamation point. Until his orgasms blur into a single white-hot moment of hot, sticky, good. Until his head is empty and his arm sore with tennis elbow. He searches for ‘Pete Wentz shirtless’ so many times in Google images it suggests it the second his thumb touches the screen. It’s a real problem.

Worst of all—worse than the squirmy feeling of disloyalty about jacking it to his best friend, worse even than the friction burn on his penis, which really is something he’s considering consulting a medic about—Patrick thinks he might be experiencing _feelings_ for Pete. He thinks he wants to _kiss_ Pete’s obnoxiously attractive mouth. He thinks he wants to _cuddle_ him afterward. 

Falling in love with Pete Wentz is like falling into the sun: it’s not straightforward, or reversible. Patrick is fucked, fucked, fucked, and he’s not even _getting_ fucked, fucked, fucked. This is outrageous. This is bullshit. This is the reason Patrick’s spending every free minute of his time in Pete’s garage, making puppy eyes at him. 

Today is no different. Today, Patrick glares sweatily at the steering wheel of his Honda like it is personally responsible for the ache in his groin. Today, he’s wearing tight underwear, tighter jeans. He’s relying on surface pressure to prevent swelling, a known technique of good boy scouts everywhere. Hopefully, this applies to penises as well as ankle sprains.

Dressed in a black and white striped crew neck and foul temper, Patrick crosses Pete’s driveway and ducks under the half-closed garage door. 

“Hey,” he says, blinking as he shoves his Aviators into his hair. “Did the car fall on you? Because if it did, I reserve the right to laugh and take pictures before I call for help.”

“Everything is completely under control.” Pete’s voice is muffled under several head-crushing tons of steel, only his lower half visible. “Just… gimme a second. This fucking drum has been fighting me all morning.”

“You know, you could call a mechanic,” Patrick says.

“Man must conquer machine, that’s the rules,” Pete says. “If I let it win, next stop: Skynet. Could you pass me the torque wrench? I’m scared to let go of this spring in case it comes after me for unsexy revenge. Uh, the torque wrench is the one that looks like a—”

“I know what a torque wrench is,” Patrick says. “My grandpa was a mechanic, you know.”

“Uhuh. You’re a regular Sparkplug Witwicky. Time is a factor, Patrick.”

Patrick hands him the stupid wrench. Rather than examining his tingly dick feelings—or, better yet, not acknowledging his tingly dick feelings, filing the tingly dick feelings away in an internal Rolodex under D for Do Not Even—Patrick examines Pete’s shoes and flips through Pete’s iTunes library. The car is actually looking pretty good, by the metrics with which terrible muscle cars are measured. Where there was rust, there’s a cherry red paint job and ‘racing stripes’—a modification Patrick laughs at regularly, and Pete defends with vigour. It has new tires and new brakes and a complete engine overhaul. There’s a possibility it might actually _work_ and not throw them headfirst into a wall. Patrick would feel proud of himself, if he had the capacity to feel anything but horny.

Eventually, Pete rolls out from under the car on one of those little mechanic’s gurneys. It’s a magnificent sight; Pete streaked in motor oil, his overalls knotted around his narrow waist, his wide mouth and dark eyes smouldering like the centrefold in a gay interest magazine. Patrick tucks that image away, a note in his pocket, and takes a deep, dick-controlling breath. 

“Hey, Sandy,” Pete says, grinning with all of his obnoxious teeth. 

“Grease jokes?” Patrick bites. “Seriously?”

“Why, this car is automatic. Systematic—”

“Yeah, yeah, Danny. I get it. Knock it off.”

Pete abandons his shirt in a particularly Pete-like way, both hands over his head, that brief, hallowed space where Patrick could look at Pete’s skin and Pete’s ink and Pete’s perfect dark nipples but avoid Pete’s eyes. 

“Why does everything you do come with a side order of semi-nudity?” Patrick grouses. 

“Patrick!” Pete says, mock-scandalised. He throws a sweaty arm around Patrick’s shoulders. “My semi is definitely covered!”

Patrick removes his face from Pete’s armpit with a grimace that’s almost-completely-not-for-show. “Are you allergic to shirts or something?”

“You know, a lot of people out there would kill for tickets to the gun show.” 

“A lot of people haven’t shared a tour bus with you,” Patrick says. “A lot of really, super lucky people, who wouldn’t recognise the smell of your farts, or the circadian rhythm of your masturbatory habits.”

Pete laughs. “Hold it for me?” he says. For a fraction of a second, Patrick thinks Pete means his penis and whites out. When his pulse recovers, he realises Pete means the transmission on the workbench. 

“Sure,” Patrick croaks, sliding his fingers into the mechanics alongside Pete’s. He lets Pete guide his hand until he’s securing a bolt while Pete reaches for a wrench. He keeps his hand steady as Pete works alongside him, every brush of their fingers a static shock to the dorsal vein. Automobile engineering has never felt sexier. Maybe Patrick should pick up a set of overalls for himself.

“You know,” Pete says. “I think we’ll finish up today.”

Patrick’s stomach lurches. The concept of the car no longer requiring work is one he hasn’t thought about too much. A distant ‘eventually’ idea. “Oh. Yeah. I mean, that’s okay, right? You must be tired of me by now.”

“I’m not sure I’d ever feel that way about you,” Pete says lightly. 

Patrick says, “Oh,” and keeps holding things in place for Pete and feeling weird and tingly and confused. 

“You’re good with your fingers,” Pete says. “Good at, um. Getting them into tight spaces.” 

“I’ve had, um. Practice. In that department,” Patrick says. He aims for suave and flirtatious, but hits squeaky and weird. 

“They’re nice fingers,” Pete says with a significantly raised eyebrow. “Um, a nice shape. Attractive knuckles. I mean, like, as far as dude hands go, they’re pretty sweet.” 

Pete’s never commented on Patrick’s _hands_ before—is this flirting? If it is, it’s weird, but basically everything about Pete is weird as fuck, so weirdness doesn’t discount the possibility. 

“I can… show you how dextrous they are some time,” Patrick offers, his pulse thick and hot. 

“Yeah,” Pete mutters, swallowing heavily. “Yeah, that would be… cool.”

They sound like a bad porno. Their hands brush; Pete lingers there for a second too long. And fuck, Patrick can’t yank his hand back, can’t make it obvious, can’t react. They hold aggressive eye contact, play a silent game of chicken. Patrick tastes sparks at the back of his throat.

Patrick watches Pete’s throat as he swallows and realises he’s entirely fucked. “You need to give me something to do with my hands,” he says breathlessly.

“I’m giving you something to do with your hands,” Pete points out. “It’s a super important job,” he adds, like Patrick is five years old and requires encouragement in the form of participation stickers. 

Patrick means the other hand. He’s almost certain he can become ambidextrous in his quest to touch the dark line of hair that runs from Pete’s navel and into his overalls, to thumb over Pete’s nipples. Patrick’s jeans are not tight enough to deal with this. “Something else,” he says plaintively. “I need something _else_ to do with my hands.” 

Pete’s eyes glow like oil lamps, his mouth curling into that electric-shock smirk he excels at. Patrick’s pulse is a busy, crawling thing, his blood more like static. He goes prey animal still. Pete nods to the hood and when he moves, he releases the scent of his sweat all wrapped up in the grease-and-leather smell of the car. It hits Patrick directly in the groin, an effervescent spill low in his belly.

Pete breathes quietly, his mouth close to Patrick’s ear. He’s still draped over Patrick’s back, an echo of what they used to do on stage. Patrick prickles with sensory memory. Pete’s fingers tighten against Patrick’s and Patrick’s poor penis goes _haywire._

“We have to switch out the carburetor,” Pete says, his voice unreadable, his eyes less so. “How good are you at bending over for long periods of time?”

Patrick thinks about Michael Day and barks out a laugh. “Better than you’d think.” When Pete shifts, Patrick imagines he feels an answering swell brush his hip. “Um, Pete?” Patrick croaks. “Is that a wrench in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?” 

Pete presses his face to the crook of Patrick’s neck, a surprisingly intimate gesture that makes Patrick feel woozy. “Overalls don’t have hip pockets,” he mumbles. “But I am _very_ pleased to see you.”

Patrick’s Adam’s apple is the size of Texas, as hot as Mordor, his palms slick with horny sweat. He looks at the car because it’s easier than looking at Pete. At least, it’s easier until he imagines his pale skin pressed between Pete and the paintwork. His dick jerks at tiny, pointed intervals, a heart rate monitor of his questionable sexual taste. It’s the overalls. It has to be the overalls. They’re sharing a joint madness induced by leaking gasoline fumes and geographical convenience. Patrick should offer to open the garage door and let some air in. Patrick should move away from Pete at once. Patrick should— 

“Nngh,” Patrick says.

Pete presses closer, his dick digging into Patrick’s hip. “Um. Do you want me to move?”

Patrick says, “Nngh,” again, but louder this time. If Pete moves, Patrick has to move. If Patrick moves, his denim-straining eldritch horror of a super-boner will become apparent. Panicked, he barks, “No. I absolutely do _not_ want you to move. Stay right there.”

“Patrick,” Pete says slowly. “Do we need to talk about this?”

“I changed my mind!” Patrick yelps. “Move!”

Pete steps back and Patrick scrambles away—Don’t touch the stove! Hot!—until the backs of his knees hit the fender. There’s an embarrassing wet patch on the front of his jeans. If anyone asks, he’ll _die_ insisting it’s motor oil. 

“Rick,” Pete says, his eyes hooked on Patrick’s mouth. “This is—”

“Nope,” Patrick cuts him off. He is not having this conversation in Pete’s garage, while Pete stands there in _overalls._ “Nope, nope, nope. This is nothing. This is basic biology. This is a sign that we both need to have sex— _with other people—_ and not risk messing up again.”

Pete steps closer, then pauses. “Patrick,” he says. And, God. God, there is _so much_ in that word.

Patrick makes a sound like his spine is hooked up to the car battery. There are so many reasons to tell Pete to stop, but none of them seem to matter with Patrick’s brain pooling gently in his groin. Pete prowls closer, until they’re toe-to-toe, hip-to-hip, the distance between their mouths measurable in molecules. Patrick’s caught. He looks down at their hips: He’s trapped. Stuck between his cock and Pete’s hard place.

“There’s a reason we’ve never done this,” Patrick whispers weakly. “This is a bad idea. We can never take it back.”

A bead of sweat rolls the length of Pete’s lean, golden throat and pools in the hollow of his collar bone. Patrick wants to mop it up with his tongue, to taste Pete like a new ice cream flavour, to coat his hands and mouth with the sticky-salty taste of him. Pete slips his thumb under the waist of Patrick’s jeans and rubs down into the crease of his groin. Close to Patrick’s cock, but not close enough. Patrick closes his eyes and concentrates—very hard—on not coming in his pants. 

“Remind me why it’s a bad idea,” Pete says. His eyes glow like ambergris. “It doesn’t feel like a bad idea. It feels like an idea ten years in the making. It feels right.”

Patrick is so hard he’s going dizzy, so hard he can’t think of a single reason why he shouldn’t do this. He _wants_ this. Pete is hot and obvious against him so Pete _wants_ this, too. The worst-case scenario is that Pete only reciprocates the dick feelings, but Patrick’s spent his adult life learning how to love Pete without reciprocation. Patrick’s heart thinks he’d be okay with it. Patrick’s dick doesn’t care either way as long as there’s wet pressure suction. There’s an element of risk here, but isn’t there always? They could do this and lose one another forever. They could do this and keep one another for always. Patrick thinks no one looks at someone the way Pete is looking at him and doesn’t feel _something._ The risk is calculated, but damn, Patrick’s bad at math. 

“Kiss me?” Patrick asks, even as he’s sliding his hand around Pete’s neck, even as he’s bringing their mouths together, even as he’s parting Pete’s lips with his tongue and licking into his mouth like he’ll suffocate if he doesn’t. Pete holds Patrick’s face in his hands and drinks him down in big, greedy gulps. They kiss with ten years of savage longing. It’s the best first kiss of Patrick’s life. 

When it breaks, Patrick whines and paws at Pete’s bare chest. This kiss can’t _stop._ Patrick wants to live in the kiss. There’s nothing he’d rather do than kiss Pete. 

“I want to blow you,” Pete says, and Patrick jolts from his heart to his hips. Okay, there’s _one_ thing he’d rather do. He makes an embarrassing sound. His fingers lock in the short, soft hair at Pete’s nape, as if compelled by electric shock.

“Fuck, say that again,” Patrick demands.

Pete noses his way to Patrick’s throat and kisses his pulse. He takes an experimental chomp of Patrick’s collar bone that sends sparks fizzing through Patrick’s bloodstream. He strokes the obscene jut behind Patrick’s zipper and looks up with a shit-eating grin.

“Let me suck your dick,” he says again, pressing the heel of his hand to the head of Patrick’s cock. Patrick whines and rocks up into the touch. “I really want to suck your dick, and I think your dick is totally on board with the idea. Why deprive us both?”

Pete mops up Patrick’s burst of laughter with a kiss. He is the most ridiculous human Patrick’s ever met. Patrick loves him with an intensity that makes his stomach hurt. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says. “I’ll let the two of you get acquainted.”

Pete’s already on his knees, already tugging at Patrick’s jeans and dick-defying boxers. “What bullshit is this?” he grouses, confounded by soft cotton briefs before he exposes Patrick’s cock to the humid heat of his breath. It curves up, a thing of blood and fury, pink against the pale skin of his belly. Patrick’s eyelids flutter. His nails sink into the back of Pete’s neck. “Oh, _Patrick,_ what a beautiful dick you have. You hide it under too many layers.”

“I hide it in my _underwear,”_ Patrick says breathily. Pete walks his fingers playfully up the length of Patrick’s cock. “Like normal people.”

“25-percent of Americans leave the house commando; did you know that?” Pete says seriously.

“No, because that’s not a normal thing that people know.”

“Knowledge is power, Rick,” Pete says cheerfully. To Patrick’s fat-with-blood, pearl-dripping cock, he says, “Hi. You’re very handsome. Probably the handsomest dick I’ve ever exposed in my garage. I can’t believe Patrick’s never introduced us.”

So, Patrick’s laughing as well as moaning as Pete takes him all the way into his throat, laughing and feeling so, so lucky and wondering why they haven’t done this before. Pete slides his tongue sloppily against the sensitive ridge of Patrick’s cock and suddenly Patrick’s so turned on he thinks he could _die_ from it. Only choking gasps spill from his lips. Oral-induced anoxia. Pete sinks lower and lower until his nose brushes the golden-brown curl of Patrick’s pubic hair. Patrick’s hips squirm, his hands petting Pete’s cheeks, his hair, digging hearty red divots into the meat of Pete’s newly broad shoulders. Pete’s mouth slips over him, sliding against him, filling Patrick’s lungs with heat and spark. Patrick rocks his hips and Pete bobs his head and hollows his cheeks and sucks Patrick like he’s sucking out venom.

Something happens against Patrick’s asshole: Pete’s fingers, warm and insistent. Yes. Yes, Patrick wants this very much. He spreads his legs and tilts his hips, leans back against the garage-cool paintwork of Pete’s car and feels himself spiral lazily toward orgasm in big, Lazy River swirls, like water down a drain. He is soclosesoclose he feels it in the roots of his teeth, tastes it like iodine at the back of his tongue. One final push, one heady rush, Patrick wants—

Pete pops off in a merry spill of his spit and Patrick’s pre-come. His finger still touches Patrick’s asshole as he turns and kisses Patrick’s thigh. Patrick makes a sound of visceral distress.

“Why’d you stop?” he bleats, his lip wobbling, his voice whiny even to his own ears. And, seriously, props to himself for forming words in a recognizable sentence structure. Props to himself for not _crying like a baby._

Pete’s smile digs into Patrick’s thigh. He looks inordinately pleased with himself for a man who just performed fellatio interruptus. “You were about to come,” he says.

“Yes!” Patrick snarls, attempting to rub himself off against Pete’s stupid, sexy necklace of thorns. “Yes, that’s sort of the fucking point of oral sex, you absolute asshole! Did no one teach you that part? This is why I’ve never introduced you to my penis—you’re a fucking _lousy_ friend! Ow!”

Pete bites him, solidly, right in the thickest part of his thigh. Patrick stops complaining only so he can scowl and plan where he’s going to hide the body when he’s beaten Pete to death with a tire iron. “Stop being an ass,” Pete says. He surges up Patrick’s body and kisses him breathless. He still smells of sweat and motor oil and Calvin Klein but now it’s sharp with the smell of Patrick’s cock and Patrick’s hot on it.

Pete guides Patrick’s hand to his erection, solid under his overalls. “We’ve been building up, haven’t we? Flirting over auto parts. Eye-fucking when we hoped the other _was_ looking. I’ll finish you off with my mouth if you want, I swear I will. Or…”

“Or?” Patrick asks. He dips his hand down the front of Pete’s overalls and feels him out with a happy little sigh. Obviously, Pete’s not wearing underwear. Patrick strokes Pete’s cock and feels a surge of, _I’m touching Pete’s dick and it feels perfect, I’m touching Pete’s dick and I should’ve been touching Pete’s dick all along, I’m touching Pete’s dick and it’s the hottest thing._

Pete closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He buries his face in Patrick’s neck and meets the motion of Patrick’s hand on his cock with the opposite-and-equal reaction of his hips and he whispers against Patrick’s ear, “Or we can fuck over the hood of my pretty car.”

Patrick unlocks like Pete is the key. “Well,” he says, “When you put it like that…” He sags back against the car and lifts his hips as Pete shucks off Patrick’s jeans, his boxers. They lift off his shirt together and Pete goes to shove the overalls off his hips until Patrick stops him. “No,” he says. “Leave them on.”

Pete kisses the corner of Patrick’s mouth. “Oh, so it’s a kink? I should’ve known, you’re _such_ a perv, Stump.”

“Wait until you see my sex dungeon,” Patrick says, then sinks his teeth into the tendon of Pete’s shoulder.

The laugh that bubbles out of Pete is golden, like honey, and Patrick laughs too. Patrick’s never _laughed_ his way through sex before, he didn’t know he was allowed to, he’s always assumed it had to be serious with intense eye contact and not _laughing so hard big teeth clash into a kiss-swollen mouth and ow—seriously!_ Pete apologises for the kiss/high-velocity oral collision, still grinning. There’s a possibility Patrick’s mouth is bleeding, but he doesn’t care, doesn’t care at all, doesn’t care about anything but lifting Pete’s dick out of his overalls and kissing Pete with his throbbing sore lip until Pete pulls back to deal with the practicalities of a condom, of lube.

“You keep _lube_ in your tool box?” Patrick asks, as Pete rummages. “You’re really _that_ guy?”

Pete’s eyebrows waggle. “Good thing, too. You know, since you can’t keep your hands off my dick when I smell like the inside of an Oldsmobile. If I’d realised this was your love language, I wouldn’t have wasted so much money on Hot Topic cologne and those shitty rubber bracelets.”

“You’re a horrible flirt,” Patrick says, as Pete slides between his thighs once more.

Pete groans, his eyes buffering on Patrick’s mouth. “I don’t think I need to flirt any more. I’ve got you right where I want you, you beautiful thing.”

Patrick licks his lips and blushes. He looks down to break eye contact, but makes it with Pete’s dick instead. Oh, but Pete’s dick is a gorgeous thing, a beautiful swollen thickness framed by dark, close-cropped pubic hair. It’s a dick Patrick wants to get his mouth on, any time spent without that handsome length filling him is time wasted.

“You have such a nice dick,” Patrick says appreciatively, helping Pete roll on the condom.

“You have such a nice ass,” Pete responds, his hips moving sharply, as if compelled into the gravitational orbit of Patrick’s fist.

Patrick hums, wraps his arms around Pete’s neck and pulls their mouths flush and takes his next breath from Pete’s lungs. “You should fuck my nice ass with your nice dick.”

“That’s a horrible line,” Pete says, laughing again.

“Coming from a man who thinks a pretty car will get him everything he wants?” Patrick says, eyebrows raised as he lies back.

Pete smiles against Patrick’s mouth and murmurs, “I’d say my pretty car got me plenty that I wanted.”

“You should shut up,” Patrick says, thighs around Pete’s waist, heels pressed to the dimples in the small of Pete’s back. “And fuck me over the hood of your pretty car.”

Pete wets two fingers in Patrick’s mouth then reaches down, slides them where Patrick is aching for him. Patrick loses the ability to feel any part of himself that isn’t pushed to Pete’s electrifying, self-immolating skin. His blood is made of burning. The fingers slide inside and Patrick evaporates under Pete’s touch. They fight the lube cap and fall into the rhythm they’ve rehearsed on stage so many times until Patrick thinks he’ll die if he doesn’t feel Pete’s dick inside of him. He leans back onto the hood and drags Pete with him, rubs his nose tenderly against Pete’s and feels so full of bursting _love._ Pete’s dick circles, circles. 

“Are you fucking me or massaging my asshole?” Patrick huffs.

“Can I give you a tip?” Pete asks.

Patrick groans, hollowed out. “No. Fuck you. Give me the whole thing.”

“Oh my _God,_ Patrick! You’re the fucking worst, I swear to God...”

Pete pushes into him shaking with laughter and Patrick thinks how _good_ it feels to feel Pete’s happiness from the inside. To feel Pete’s happiness at all. Maybe this is the natural progression of the love he has for Pete, the love Pete has for him. Maybe the wound of the hiatus has festered only because Patrick held it open, split apart and raw and bleeding. Maybe—God, how is Patrick still _thinking_ with Pete pushing into him with slow, sure strokes, with Pete gasping and panting in his ear?—Maybe they had to go through _that_ to get to _this._

Pete bottoms out and stills, his forehead dropped to Patrick’s, his eyes hot and hopeful. “You feel…”

“I know,” Patrick says. “You too.”

They move together. Pete fucks him slow and sure with long, deep strokes of his hips. “Like this?” he whispers, smiling.

“Not even a little.” Patrick wraps his legs around Pete’s waist and grinds onto his dick. “Like that,” he corrects, breathless. Pete begins to fuck him in earnest. “God, fuck. Yeah, like _that.”_

“You’re so fucking bossy. It’s so fucking hot.”

Fucked up on love, they kiss and grind and laugh into one another’s mouths. They overflow with feeling, filling one another up. Pete’s knee is braced against the fender as Patrick acquires squeaky friction burn against his spine and it feels _incredible._ They don’t last long—try fucking your soulmate, your other half, your twinned and lonely soul, for the first time in _ten years,_ see how well _you_ hold out—it doesn’t take them long at all to hit that desperate, wailing high, that cresting wave of pleasure so overwhelming it shorts out like a fusebox. Patrick clings to Pete as he falls apart. He mouths the salty skin behind Pete’s ear and glazes Pete’s ridiculous bartskull with his come. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t stop smiling the whole time, his jaw aching as much as his thighs as Pete pushes into him a final time and stops, holds perfectly still, and comes with a breathless groan of Patrick’s name. 

“Oh, fuck,” Patrick says to Pete’s garage ceiling. 

“Am I more than you bargained for yet?” Pete jokes, nipping Patrick’s collar bone with his teeth. 

The serotonin leaks away and Patrick begins to panic. Oh God. Oh _God._

Pete has now seen Patrick’s naked asshole. Pete has been _inside of_ Patrick’s body _._ This is the first step on an inevitable route to heartbreak and possible national disaster. They shouldn’t have done this; this was a terrible idea. 

“I should leave,” he says quickly. 

“Why?” Pete asks, slumping over Patrick’s panicky form. He has a distinct weight advantage. 

“I have—Things to do,” Patrick squawks. _Like having a nervous breakdown in the privacy of my own living room, thanksverymuch._ “Things that… are not here.”

“Hey,” Pete says. He kisses Patrick’s mouth. “Don’t run away from me. It took me ten years to catch up this time, don’t make me do that again. Where’s your head at, Stump?”

Where would Pete like him to start?

“We’re going to fuck this up. _I’m_ going to fuck this. This is going to fuck up and we’re going to wind up divorced and it’s going to _suck_ because it’s going to be reported by Perez fucking Hilton. My mom’s going to be so disappointed. She likes you, Pete. She actually fucking _likes_ you. Do you know how much she liked my exes? She did not! This is—It’s—”

Patrick is so scared. He doesn’t want to be a convenient orgasm attached to an inconvenient ex-friend. The most sexually daring moment of his life becomes the most terrifying as he waits for Pete to say something—anything. Pete is silent. Patrick’s being ghosted while Pete is still inside of him. His heart beats staccato against his ribs.

Patrick has to move to somewhere deserted. Somewhere no one knows the names Patrick Stump and Pete Wentz. Antarctica seems plausible. First, he has to remove Pete’s penis from his asshole, but moving to Antarctica is definitely the next thing on the list. 

“Yep. Leaving now,” he says. “If you could just—God, there’s no classy way to say this—If you could just hand me my underwear and remove your dick from my ass…” 

“Hey, hey, hey,” Pete says softly. He kisses Patrick’s rabbiting pulse in his throat. “How about we start with pizza and a movie and see where we go from there? We can fret about our divorce once we reach, you know, the _marriage_ part. How’s that sound?”

Patrick takes a deep breath. It can’t possibly be this easy. “Okay,” he says dubiously. “Pizza and a movie. Let’s start there.”

*

Patrick’s life is blissful. Patrick’s life is perfect. Patrick’s life is arguing with Pete about everything that doesn’t matter and agreeing about everything that does. It’s the very best parts of their friendship with bonus brain-melting sex. Patrick is in love with his best friend and it’s wonderful.

There’s only one uncertainty—how to mark one-sixth of a year in the most emotionally satisfying relationship of Patrick’s life? Look, Patrick’s not a sappy dude. He never imagined he’d become the kind of person who marked a two-month anniversary, but Pete is grand, explosive gestures and faking chest pain to get his heart x-rayed and Patrick feels—on every level that counts—that this is something he has to live up to. 

He stands in his garage, hands shaking, and worries about lighting and framing and tone. The car is even more of a wreck than Pete’s Mustang, a shabby little ‘89 BMW convertible, the smell of oil and sweat caught in the pillow of stuffing that leaks from the driver’s seat. It’s shitty but unapologetically so, and no one’s bigger on 80s nostalgia than Pete. Besides, it’s not like Patrick could afford anything better after Soul Punk.

He brings his zipper down and his foot up against the fender. He snaps a shot that showcases the terrible paint job, the rust, the peeling window seals. Reflected in the windshield is his Black Cards shirt, the slutty pink slash of his mouth, his cock in his fist. All coincidental pieces of background information. Pete cannot prove otherwise.

_Bought a little fixer-upper, want to help me straighten it out?_

He hits send before he can talk himself out of it and relies on that horny bravery Pete inspires in him to keep from freaking out about possible phone hacks and inevitable picture leaks and his mom seeing his penis on the cover of US Weekly. His phone rings immediately and Patrick is so shocked he very nearly throws it through the windshield.

“Happy anniversary,” Patrick says breathlessly. 

“Fuck, babe,” Pete says, his breathing quick and excited. He makes a sound that could be mistaken for a hungry groan. “I got you, like. Vinyl. I feel very usurped.”

Patrick sucks his bottom lip. He’s so hard he thinks he’s going blind. “The car’s for both of us. Think you’re up for it?”

“Oh, Trick,” Pete says. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes. I think I have just the tool for the job.”

Patrick smiles. “Bring your overalls.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed it. I'm on tumblr @sn1tchesandtalkers. Come say hi!


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